


Three Little Words

by RascalJoy (DarkQuill)



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Batboys, Brobonding, DD Duo, Family, Gen, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 03:59:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4772687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkQuill/pseuds/RascalJoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grayson gave him a mischievous grin, falling back into the armchair. "I'll get you to say those three little words yet, Dami. It's on my bucket list."</p><p>Damian snorted. "Tt. You're an idiot, Grayson."</p><p>Damian didn't know why he was thinking about that particular moment as the gun went off, catching the stomach of the man that had leapt into the bullet's path: right for Damian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Little Words

**Author's Note:**

> Cross posted from Fanfiction.net.
> 
> Original publish date: 12-28-14
> 
> Inspired by the last little bit of the hilarious "Step By Step" by paganpunk2! You guys should totally check it out! :) I banged this out afterward.

_"Come on, Damian," Grayson goaded. "You can do it. Repeat after me: I love you. And hug me like this." The man moved toward Damian, arms open wide to embrace him as a silly grin spread over his face.  
_

_Damian ducked under the outstretched arms, spinning around abruptly to plop down on the armchair across from the one Dick was now hugging. He glared at the man. "Why people engage in such frivolous nonsense will always elude me."_

_Grayson gave him a mischievous grin, falling back into the hastily abandoned armchair. "I'll get you to say those three little words yet, Dami. It's on my bucket list."_

_Damian snorted in derision. "Tt. You're an idiot, Grayson."_

_"I don't see how displaying affection makes one an idiot," Dick said thoughtfully. "But I'll quote you on that later."_

_Damian rolled his eyes, ignoring the immature boy across from him and fixing his attention on organizing his playlist. Like Grayson could ever get him to partake in such useless gestures of emotion._

Damian didn't know why he was thinking about that particular moment as the gun went off, catching the stomach of the man that had leapt into the bullet's flight path—right for Damian.

Utter incomprehension blocked his thoughts as the chosen human shield gasped in pain, seeming to fall in slow motion to the ground at Damian's feet. The dull thud as the body hit the ground seemed to echo through the warehouse, followed by an ominous silence.

Slowly, his head feeling heavy, he looked up from the fallen figure, staring at the smirking thug holding a smoking gun fifteen feet away. His vision went red, blood roaring in his ears. He took a step forward.

Damian didn't actually remember attacking the villain, but the next thing he knew, he was staggering away from a bruised and bloody broken body—toward the crumpled pile of blue and black. His knees gave way to smack into the concrete floor, his heart in his mouth as he turned the man over onto his back. He gulped shakily at the sight of the gaping hole in the Kevlar, just left of his navel, slowly oozing the scary dark red platelets into a steadily growing pool of blood on the concrete.

"Nightwing?" he whispered. When he received no response, he struggled to swallow past the lump in his throat. "Nightwing," he snapped more insistently, giving the man a harsh shake. "Wake up."

The man beneath his hands shuddered, a low groan echoing from his mouth.

Damian immediately jerked forward, watching with wide and desperate eyes behind his mask. "Nightwing?"

A couple of wet coughs rattled in Dick's throat—Damian figured he should be concerned about that, but at the moment he was too relieved to care—as the slits of Nightwing's mask opened with his eyes.

The dark-haired man rolled his head lazily to the side. "Dami?" he asked in a hoarse whisper. The fingers of his right hand fidgeted, reaching out toward the child at his side.

Though he'd deny it later, Damian quickly trapped the hand within his own, clutching the weak fingers as if they were Grayson's only lifeline to the physical world. "You big _idiot_ ," Damian hissed. "What were you thinking jumping out in front of a gun like that? You knew he had Kevlar piercing bullets!"

Dick gave him a small smile, wincing as he attempted to chuckle. "Oh, you know. I love you, Dami."

Blazing red heat rose in Damian's cheeks, which he tried to cover with an angry glare at the man. But he just couldn't find the heart to get angry at him when the man could barely breathe. "That still doesn't excuse your stupidity," he protested, coping in the only way he knew how.

Dick shook his head, smile still in place. "It does if it's for family."

Damian blinked. "That's impractical. Look where it got you."

"But it would've been you, right?"

Damian had nothing to say to that.

"Look, Little D," Nightwing sighed, his eyes slowly closing. "I did it 'cause I love you, 'kay? And sometimes, that's enough."

Damian's eyebrows furrowed, a combination of confusion and worry. He had never understood the bond people, especially family members, formed between themselves. The bond that tended to drive them to doing stupid things like taking a bullet for another. That kind of sentimentality had been little to nonexistent in the Al Ghul household, leading him to never truly be exposed to such confusing and dangerous feelings. That is, until he'd come to live with his father and met the first Robin. And then he'd been given more affection in the first ten minutes than he'd received in his whole ten years.

Angrily, he jerked himself out of his thoughts. Such thinking was no being of any assistance to either himself or the dunce at his feet.

It took a couple of moments for him to realize that Grayson had gone still. His chest wasn't moving.

"Nightwing?" he asked hesitantly.

No reply.

"Nightwing," he said more forcefully. "Wake up."

Not even a twitch.

"Nightwing!" he yelled, pounding a fist into the Kevlar chest. "Get up, _right now_."

When there was still no reply, Damian ripped his glove off, reaching out to nimbly check for a pulse on the hand still clasped in his.

He couldn't find it.

Cold, hard terror rippled through him. He began chest compressions, putting all his admittedly meager weight behind each push as he fought for Grayson's life.

Hesitating only momentarily, he pried open the older man's mouth, breathing air from his tiny lungs into the much larger ones.

"Come...on...Grayson," he panted, shoving hard at the Kevlar-encased chest. "Don't...do this...to me."

Something wet and foreign fell down his cheek. His breath came in ragged gasps. And Grayson's breath didn't come at all.

"Grayson," Damian said, a choked sob escaping his mouth as he pounded fruitlessly against the man's chest. "Grayson, please!"

But the vigilante's body remained ominously still.

Tears Damian didn't even try to hide streamed down his cheeks as he burrowed his face into the Kevlar chest. "Please. Don't go."

There was no reply.

"Robin, move!" barked a familiar voice behind him.

Reflexively, Damian staggered backward as the dark shadow swept to the ground beside the downed Nightwing.

Two black-gloved fingers pressed against the first Robin's throat. And that's when the compressions started.

Damian watched numbly as the Batman tried to resuscitate his first partner—his first son. Damian wasn't superstitious, and certainly didn't believe in luck, but that didn't stop him from seriously considering crossing his fingers and toes as he pleaded with heaven: _Please. Let Grayson live. Don't let him die yet. I need him._

After several heart stopping moments, a low gasp came from the body on the floor.

Batman hurriedly sat back on his heels, giving the younger man space as he briefly gasped and choked, momentarily settling into pained pants. And Damian realized Grayson was breathing.

Damian didn't realize he'd been holding his own breath until his lungs ached for air. He quickly drew his own, the guilt no longer pressing so hard on his soul that he could breathe and Grayson couldn't. Because now Grayson was breathing. And that meant everything was okay. Right?

The hard look on his father's face as he ripped pieces of his cape to press against the wound, and the fact that Nightwing had yet to open his eyes, answered his question.

"Robin, pull the car around," Batman ordered, a tense worry only those who truly knew him would hear lacing his tone. "Tell Agent A to prepare the medbay. Now!"

Damian didn't need to be told twice. He ran out of the warehouse to the parked Batmobile, his feet slipping in the muddy snow as he mentally chanted: _Please let Grayson be okay. Please let Grayson be okay._

The mantra ran on repeat through his head as he called Alfred, the conversation a blur as he settled the car into drive. It suddenly occurred to him just how desperate Batman was if he was allowing Damian to actually take the wheel of his precious Batmobile.

Damian swallowed. _Don't think about it. You'll only feel worse_ , he chided himself.

He pulled up next to the warehouse door just as Batman staggered outside, his precious burden clutched tightly to his chest. Damian leapt out of the vehicle, running to the other side to help guide Nightwing's legs into the back seat.

Thank goodness they had brought the four-person Batmobile.

Clambering in next to Grayson, Damian strapped both of them in as he pointedly ignored the curious look his father gave him when he shunned the shotgun seat he always craved.

Damian found himself clutching Nightwing's arm as the Batmobile tore through the streets of Gotham. He told himself it was just to keep the unconscious man steady.

The trip back to the Batcave, in reality 20 minutes, seemed to take hours, every second meaning just that much more blood Grayson bled out beside him. Keeping a hand locked on the man's wrist, he focused his whole being on the beating of the steadily weakening pulse.

_Thump...thump...thump..._

He jumped in surprise as the roof of the Batmobile suddenly opened, the familiar dank air of the Batcave seeping into the cabin.

Batman appeared over them, casting a dark shadow over the back seat as he leaned forward to lift Nightwing from the cushions.

"Robin," his father said softly.

Damian looked up distractedly from where his eyes had been fixed on Grayson's scarily lifeless face. "Yes, father?"

"Let go."

Heat creeped up Robin's cheeks as he realized he was still gripping Grayson's wrist like a lifeline. He hastily dropped the hand, which immediately drooped toward the ground, as seemingly lifeless as its master.

Damian vaulted from his seat, trotting to keep up with his father's rapid strides as he headed for the infirmary.

Alfred was waiting inside the white-walled room, lips pursed and expression steadily emotionless as Batman eased Nightwing onto a stretcher.

Within moments, Dick was hooked up to more machines then Damian dared count, let alone name. The only one he paid any attention to was the heart monitor, masked eyes fixed on the barely bumping wavelengths and the slight beeps. And suddenly, the line didn't bump at all. A long, unending beep echoed through the Cave.

"Pennyworth," Damian gasped, taking a half-step forward.

"Master Damian, please stay back," Alfred ordered tersely, tension creasing extra lines into his face as he pulled out two metal paddles. "Master Bruce, please call the charge."

Damian watched helplessly as an all too familiar whine became known.

"Charging...charging..." Bruce announced steadily. "Clear!"

Damian winced as the paddles came in contact with Grayson's bare chest—when had they pulled his top off?—the limp body arcing off the stretcher and shivering as electricity coursed through him.

The heart monitor continued its monotonous beep.

"Again!" Alfred barked.

Batman nodded. "Charging...charging... Clear!"

A second wave of electricity rippled through Nightwing, his spine arcing painfully before thudding back onto the bed.

Damian found he couldn't breathe as they prepared for a third shock—Grayson was still flatlined.

He didn't want to watch, and yet he couldn't tear his eyes away. It was like one of those stupid horror movies Grayson had forced him to watch on Halloween that year: the people would simply stand, staring and screaming as the chosen terror of the film destroyed one of their companions. They didn't move, just remained frozen in fear until they too were slain.

Of course, that might not be the most accurate analogy, but Damian felt the same frozen horror running through his veins, rooting him to the spot as Alfred brought the paddles down on the still unmoving chest.

Damian flinched horribly as Grayson's body contorted—that did _not_ look comfortable.

After several heartrending seconds, a break came in the horrible constant that had been the flatline.

Damian let out a shuddering breath as the line began to bounce again—weakly, but there.

Batman's cowled face went slack with relief—that is to say, his jaw loosened slightly—but Alfred was as stiff-lipped as ever.

"Master Bruce, Master Damian, I would ask that you take your leave," he ordered. "If I don't perform surgery immediately, Master Richard will not last till morning."

Damian didn't want to move. He wanted to stay, eyes glued to the monitor that told him his first real mentor was still alive rather than wait outside and be crushed by the weight of guilt and suspense.

A heavy hand placed itself on his shoulder. Damian looked up to see his father looking down at him, his expression unreadable. Gently, the Bat guided Damian from the room.

As they exited the infirmary, Damian took one last look at the unconscious form on the bed, taking in every feature until they turned the corner and he was lost to sight.

His father immediately stalked toward the computer banks. Work always seemed to be his way of removing himself from the world, getting totally absorbed in the never ending mission to distract himself from the pain.

Damian had no such leisure. He was at a loss as to what he should do. Sure, Grayson had been injured before. He'd even gone critical once or twice. But never had he been on the verge of death on account of Damian.

Because Damian knew it was his fault.

His fault that he had been too slow to notice the man with the gun. His fault that he hadn't reacted fast enough. Because if he'd only moved a couple feet to the side, Dick wouldn't have felt the need to try and save him.

Damian slowly peeled off his green domino mask, staring at the limp piece of fabric in his hand as he rubbed the remnants of spirit gum from his face. Sometimes he wondered if he really deserved to wear the costume and bear the name of a man so great. He was still definitely more worthy than a certain Tim Drake, of course, but compared to Grayson... He never felt good enough.

Not that he would ever tell him that. It was his secret to keep. And his it would stay.

Damian glanced apprehensively at the closed off section that marked the well-used infirmary. His gaze then wandered to his father, hunched over the keyboard as he poured over various case files.

Hesitantly, breathing deeply to calm his unusually racing heart, he crept up behind the chair, hardly having to try to silence his shadowy footsteps.

"Now what?" he asked abruptly. Only his tone didn't sound so much harsh as something else.

Bruce's clacking fingers slowly trailed off, though his gaze remained determinedly fixed on the screen ahead of him. Damian absently noticed the man had yet to remove his cowl.

For a moment, the Bat said nothing.

Damian began to wonder if his father had even heard him.

Finally, the gravelly voice became known: "We wait."

* * *

 

Five hours. It took five hours before Pennyworth had finished the surgery and deemed Dick ready for visitors after a period of surveillance.

Damian had swept into the room the moment Alfred had said it was safe, yanking a chair from the corner and plopping down on the plastic seat. He crossed his arms over his chest as he stared at the man on the bed, ears tuned into the steady beeping of the heart monitor.

He didn't even twitch when Bruce slid into the room beside him, taking one of Dick's limp hands in his own and giving a brief squeeze.

Damian had now been sitting here for three hours. His father had left an hour ago, but Damian certainly wasn't planning on moving anytime soon. Not until Grayson opened his eyes.

Most of the medical hoopla Pennyworth had reported to his father hours before had gone in one ear and out the other, but Damian had noted the important bits: like the surgery had gone well, and if no complications occurred in the next 24 hours, Grayson had a high chance for survival.

So Damian waited. Waited for the laughing blue eyes to open, for the cheerful mouth to tell him that everything would be all right. Because right now, it seemed anything but.

He couldn't help comparing the figure on the bed with the excitable, hyperactive vigilante that simply couldn't sit still if you paid him.

The usually exuberant face was drawn and pale, sparkling blue eyes hidden behind closed lids and readily smiling mouth curved in a small frown.

He looked so—Damian strove for the right word—frail. So fragile. Something he had never even considered Grayson as being. Dick _was_ only human.

But then, so was Damian.

No matter how much he flaunted his superiority, no matter how "above-it-all"—as Drake had put it—he acted, it would never change the fact that Damian was susceptible to the same sort of injury as any other person.

Months ago, that didn't worry him. After all, with a host of the most brilliant doctors and more than a few Lazarus Pits at his fingertips, Damian was set for life—and beyond.

But ever since he had cut all ties with his mother... He shuddered. It finally registered with him that he could actually _die_. No take backs. No second chances. No medical miracle. He would be gone forever.

Only Grayson seemed to see past the false bravado, to see the—ahem— _child_ underneath. And at first, that had seriously irked him. But now...

He stared at the silent figure on the stretcher, the inner conflict of emotions completely foreign to him clashing in his chest.

Taking a shuddering breath, he leaned forward to rest his cheek against the muscled arm. "Please don't leave me, Grayson," he breathed. "I love you."

His heart settling within him, Damian heaved a tired sigh. It had been nearly 3am when they had first arrived back at the Cave. Now, according to the clock in the corner, it was 11:32am. His sleep deprived mind foggily calculated the hours: he had been awake for exactly 42 hours straight. He yawned squeakily.

Might as well catch up on some sleep...

Within moments, blackness crept in from the edges of his vision, dragging him into the peaceful depths.

* * *

 

Damian woke slowly, his cheek pressed against something hard and warm.

Forcing the last vestiges of sleep from his mind, he opened his eyes, slightly confused to see himself looking at scarred skin. His gaze wandering farther upward, he found himself staring into bright, attentive blue eyes, a small smirk gracing the corners of the mouth beneath.

Everything crashing back to him in a rush, Damian quickly yanked his head off of Grayson's arm, desperately hoping his cheeks weren't as red as they felt.

"You're awake," he managed stiffly.

Dick cocked his head lazily, raising an eyebrow. "I could say the same to you."

The heat in his cheeks doubled their intensity. "If you tell father—"

Grayson held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Chill, Little D. My lips are sealed."

He winced quietly, reaching down to rest a hand on his bandaged stomach.

Immediately, Damian was on his feet. "Are you all right? Should I get Pennyworth?"

"Nah," Dick said, waving a dismissive hand as his breath hissed slightly between clenched teeth. "Just a spasm. It'll pass."

It took longer than Damian would have liked for Grayson's breathing to return to normal.

"Ugh," the first Boy Wonder groaned, head flopping back on his pillow. "I _hate_ getting shot."

Damian smirked. "Well maybe if you stopped ticking off the bad guys so much, they wouldn't find it so amusing to shoot at you." Or stop jumping in their line of fire.

Dick stuck a mature tongue in his direction, eyes closing tiredly. "Whatever, Little D."

There was a moment of silence, only broken by the constant beeping of the heart monitor.

"You're an idiot," Damian blurted.

Grayson's eyes opened, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion as he rolled his head over to look at Damian. "What?"

Damian gestured expansively at the bed. "What possible endgame were you imagining by intercepting that bullet?" he demanded. "Look at where it got you!"

Dick blinked. Then his face softened. "And think of where it would have gotten _you_. That bullet was headed for your heart, Dami."

Damian swallowed, averting his eyes. "It was still a stupid thing to do."

Dick sighed softly. "You do we realize we've already had this discussion?"

Damian flinched. He mentally cursed himself. Perfect. Now he had memory failures to add to his growing list of human defects.

This time, the silence that stretched between them was as taut as a bowstring.

"Look," Damian said carefully, "what I'm trying to say is..." He hesitated. "Thank you." He looked down, scuffing his foot on the ground. "If you weren't there, I probably wouldn't be here. So..."

He left the sentence hanging.

A surprised look crossed Dick's face. After a moment, the shock was replaced with a gentle smile. Before the boy could react, he found himself enveloped in a tight hug, a sharp chin burying itself in his short black hair. "You're welcome, Dami."

For just a moment, Damian leaned down into the embrace, silently relishing the comforting feel of the arms around him.

Then he pulled—somewhat reluctantly—away, settling back into the chair he'd occupied for the last eternity, his point made.

"By the way," Dick said innocently, "I had an interesting dream earlier: you were sitting at my bedside and happened to say a certain three little words. Isn't that strange?"

Damian's facial temperature skyrocketed. "Completely ridiculous," he snapped.

Dick nodded knowingly, his blue eyes twinkling. "Of course. Silly me. Idiot."

Damian stood abruptly. "I'm going to tell father and Pennyworth that you are finally awake."

Dick raised an eyebrow. "Finally?"

Damian gave him his most potent Batglare—something he prided himself in, and had admittedly been practicing for some time.

Grayson merely snickered. "Sorry, Little D, but when you've lived with the Bat for as long as I have, you kinda become immune."

Damian huffed, twirling on his heel. "You're impossible."

"And proud of it!" Grayson called after his retreating form.

Damian allowed a small smile to cross his features. Grayson was back.

"Crossing that off my list," came a quiet mutter behind him. "Damian...said...I...love...you. Check!"

Damian scowled. For better or worse had yet to be decided.


End file.
